


A Tense Luxury

by shelllessturtle



Series: Bittersweet [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, I think I accidentally gave Belle ADHD, Oops?, Some hurt/comfort, cw: attempted rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 16:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13080978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shelllessturtle/pseuds/shelllessturtle
Summary: The life she lives, in the end, is one of luxury, despite the work she does. Still, there's a tension that underlies everything, and she can't be sure it's all in her head.





	A Tense Luxury

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god I finished it. It has been literal years. 
> 
> *stares off into the middle distance*
> 
> *has quiet existential crisis*
> 
> Much thanks to sleeplittlechild for the beta. It's possible she owns my soul.

There’s an exact day things change. It’s precisely one hundred and three days after she started working for him; she isn’t entirely sure why she remembers it like that, in days rather than months, but if anyone were to ask her, that’s what she’d tell them.

And it’s not as though that morning is normal beforehand, either. Isabelle French wakes to her alarm (she still hasn’t gotten used to this new schedule; perhaps another month before she starts waking before the clock), and immediately feels that something is off. Everything feels wrong, like she should be somewhere else, like this bed and these walls are utterly new to her, even though this is the one hundred and second time she has woken up here. Her head swims a little, like when she experiences _déjà vu_. There’s a phrase for it, she knows. She wracks her brain for a moment… _jamais vu_ , that’s it. She can’t remember where she learned it, but she could easily say that about half the things she knows; they’re just kind of… _there_ , and none of this is getting her ready for the day.

She showers hurriedly—she has lost valuable minutes to contemplation of psychology and phrases in French—heh—and drying her hair takes long enough as it is. Still, she has clothed herself and is cooking breakfast before Mr. Gold is due to make his appearance.

She sings as she gets ready; it’s a habit left over from living with her father, something she had started shortly after her mother died. It’s something her mother had done, too, and it had eased some of the terrible pain and emptiness in her father’s face. Mr. Gold hasn’t said anything about it yet, either in the positive or the negative, so Izzy just keeps singing.

She is almost done with the food when she hears his cane tapping on the floor behind her. She is normally done cooking by the time he comes down, but he has made it clear that he doesn’t mind if he has to wait a few minutes. Still, she turns, smiling, to greet him and to apologize for being behind schedule.

It’s something about his return smile, perhaps, or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at her, or maybe it’s just that that shade of purple looks _really_ good on him. Whatever it is, something is different this morning than the one hundred and one mornings previous, and something in her stomach drops and her heart leaps like she has missed him desperately and a tension she hadn’t noticed uncoils behind her sternum and it feels like she has finally, finally come home.

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It’s a long time before things change again. She spends nearly two years working for him, two years in which he is “Mr. Gold” and she is “Miss French”, two years in which she playfully calls him “sir” to bring him out of bad moods and he affectionately calls her “darling” in a way that warms her down to her core, before he calls her “Belle”.

And it slips out in a way that tells her that he’s been thinking of her as “Belle” for a long time now, and he goes absolutely, completely still, like a startled deer, like he expects her to take offense. But she knows that if she does, he will close himself off from her, and she will lose what feels like the closest friendship she’s ever had, and really, it’s a lovely nickname, though she knows it would only sound right coming from him, and honestly, it’s been two years, why haven’t they been using first names before now? So she smiles and tells him so, and his return smile is a little helpless as he fumbles for a moment and then tells her to call him Nicholas.

She can’t help grinning at him, this sweet employer of hers who no one else gets to see, and asks him what he wants for dinner, his name rolling off her tongue like she has always used it.

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_She has returned to him, on the advice of a stranger on the road. The stranger isn’t the only reason, of course, just the tipping point. The reasons are numerous, both giant and tiny, and they back up in her mind and jumble themselves together when she tries to set them straight. She has no idea what would happen if she tried to articulate them, so she’s glad to have the excuse of wanting to hear his story. Which she does, but that’s only a tiny fraction of everything._

_She settles on his wheel, a more intimate seat than she usually takes, and waits for her story. As he dredges up his history, she sees past the hard wall he has made in his eyes, around his heart, to the pain and vulnerability he has tried so long to hide. In that moment, she can see that, despite all his sneering and his dismissiveness and his gestures of unconcern, he feels deeply, and that he has learned that the world perceives emotion as weakness._

_When he tells her, quietly, that he lost his son, when he strips away all the details to tell her the only thing that matters, that his boy is gone, he looks so broken and alone and her heart breaks for him and she realizes yes, yes, she_ does _love him, she is_ in _love with him, and all she wants is to take away a little of his pain, show him that he is less alone than he thinks, and it seems so easy and it feels so natural as she leans forward and—_

_—stops._

_Unbidden, something her mother once said rises to the surface of her mind. “Don’t ever wish for someone you love to be different. Don’t ever try to change them to suit you. If you do, you aren’t loving a real person; you’re loving someone you’ve made up.” She had said it in regards to Gaston, and she had maybe been implying that she knew Belle didn’t love Gaston, but here, now, Belle_ does _love someone, and she knows that love means changing someone only if they_ want _the change._

_So she pulls away._

_The look he wears on his face for a split second is one of deep surprise and utter longing, and it makes her hope that he might love her, too. But his expression closes so quickly, and she hates that pulling away just then might be the reason he pulls away from her. Still, she won’t get anywhere by assuming things._

_“Rumplestiltskin?”_

_“Yes, dearie?” His voice is but a whisper, and maybe he won’t be pulling away._

_“Is it true that True Love’s kiss will break any curse?”_

_He goes absolutely still. He may even stop breathing, but she isn’t quite sure. “It…_ can _,” he says, and she can hear the delicate emphasis on the second word. Does that mean it might not work, even if True Love is involved?_

_She doesn’t like how still he is. He’s never still. Maybe she should have just kissed him? She feels her bravery waver, but continues, anyway. She cannot stop now. “Are you under a curse?”_

_“Technically.”_

_And here is the important question. Belle feels her face heating as she asks, “Do you think I’d be able to break it?”_

_And despite his closed expression, she can see terror rising in his eyes. He is beyond afraid of that idea, and though she doesn’t know why, she wants to assure him that she will not do anything to him that he doesn’t want._

_Before she can even open her mouth, though, something in him changes. He relaxes, maybe even smiles a bit, and reaches out to take one of her hands. “Yes,” he says, “I do, but I wish you wouldn’t.”_

_That is…unexpected. Her brow furrows. “You_ like _being cursed?”_

_He shakes his head with a rueful chuckle. “No, not really,” he says, “but the curse is the price for my power, and I need my power to find my son.”_

_Her free hand flies to her mouth. So_ that’s _why he looked so scared. “And I almost took it away!”_

_The smile he gives her is so soft and affectionate that her heart feels it might explode. “But you didn’t,” he says. “You asked me, instead.” His thumb strokes the back of her hand. “You know, True Love’s kiss only works if one of the participants wants the curse broken.”_

_Her smile widens until it hurts, and she practically flings herself into his arms._

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Her days exist as a routine that feels simultaneously soothing and monotonous. She likes what she does, the cooking and the cleaning and the organizing. And the reading, of course. That had been one of the major enticements to working here. Nicholas (though he had been “Mr. Gold” to her at the time) had practically dangled access to his personal library over her head. Thinking back on it, it seems almost as if he had been trying to bait a trap for her. With this thought comes an image; a large box propped up by a stick with thread tied to it, Nicholas holding the other end, and books piled on the ground under the box. It’s funny, but also a little sad. She thinks that maybe she knew, right from the start, how incredibly lonely he was before she came along; it hadn’t really surprised her to realize that she had been hired to be his friend as much as his maid.

And she is glad to fill both roles, so she cleans and cooks and reads while he’s at the shop, and she chats with him when he’s home, swapping jokes and arguing good-naturedly about current events, prying stories out of him about the pieces he sometimes brings home to work on, and occasionally curling up on the couch at night and watching a movie with him. He is easily her best friend, and she does her best to ignore the occasional thought that he could be something more.

She does other things, of course. She likes spending time at Granny’s, chatting with Ruby and, sometimes, Mary Margaret. Ruby shares her wanderlust, and they concoct ridiculous, impossible plans to drain their bank accounts and run away to travel the world. Mary Margaret is their voice of reason, reminding them that they have responsibilities and that, really, Storybrooke isn’t so bad.

When Izzy feels particularly restless, when she thinks she may go mad if she has to be still, she visits Jefferson. Theirs is an odd friendship, certainly, and he often tells her that she reminds him of a time he wasn’t so alone, but he seems constantly filled with a frantic energy and will walk with her anywhere she wants to go. He tells her stories that sound like they came from a fantasy book but that he swears are true. And he is the only person she is sure won’t look at her like she’s crazy if she tells him about her occasional weird perception of time.

“It’s inconsistent,” she says one day. “Sometimes it feels right, like time is actually moving forward at one second per second, but other times…other times, it feels like I lost a week in a single blink, or like minutes are taking hours to pass.”

He nods in response, as if that’s a perfectly normal thing to say, and they talk about books about time travel.

Her most regular outing is going out for drinks with Leroy, and occasionally the other miners, every other Saturday night. She likes the companionship, cranky though Leroy can be, especially when she walks him home so Graham doesn’t bring him in for public intoxication. Leroy, at least, doesn’t lurk in corners and stare at her, unlike certain doctors and former deputies. Though, in all fairness, Dr. Whale is just annoying. Keith is creepy.

It’s Whale who gets under her skin first, though. She gets utterly fed up with him harassing every woman he lays eyes on and claiming that he can out-drink everyone in the bar, and leans over to Leroy to say, in a deliberately carrying voice, “He needs to either back that up or shut his mouth.”

Leroy, nowhere near drunk yet, catches on and grins at her. “You’d drink him to a standstill, sister,” he replies, just as loud.

As intended, Whale hears. “What?” he demands. “There’s no way.”

Izzy shrugs. “Fine, don’t believe it. But then, everyone here will always wonder.”

Forty-five minutes later, as she leaves Whale comatose on the table and works her slightly-unsteady way out the door, Izzy decides that “goading drunks” should be a marketable skill. Leroy walks her home this time.

Nicholas is still awake when she gets in, and he blinks up at her in surprise. “You’re home early,” he says, and then leaps up when she staggers against a wall. “Belle?” he says, sounding like he’s about to panic. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“Iiiiii,” Izzy starts, drawing the single word out as she hunts for the remainder of her sentence, “might be a little drunk.”

“What?” Nicholas demands. “How? You have a higher tolerance than anyone I’ve ever met. Did you not eat anything? Are you—”

“’Sfine,” she cuts him off, waving a hand. “Whale was being a pile of garbage so I drank him under a table.”

Nicholas blinks at her for a moment, then starts laughing. “You know,” he manages, “tomorrow is rent day.”

Izzy has to sit on the floor, she’s laughing so hard. “He’s going to be _so_ hungover,” she gets out. “Oh, please, please take pictures.”

Once they settle down, Nicholas has to help her off the floor, and then he escorts her to her bedroom, to “prevent mishaps.”

“You know,” he says on the way up, “I think I’m glad that you’re friends with Leroy.”

Izzy grins up at him. “Yeah, me, too.”

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_Ostensibly, Belle is running an errand for Rumplestiltskin in the nearby village. In reality, she is sitting in a tavern, drinking ale, and waiting. Waiting is always the worst part. For lack of anything better to do, she watches the door, itching to be on her way. She sees, then, when the dwarves come in, sweaty and covered in the dirt of the mine. She has seen dwarves before, on other errands she has run for Rumplestiltskin, but tonight, there seem to be new members of their group. One in particular catches her attention, trailing behind the others, watching the stars even as the door closes behind him, smiling as if everything he sees is wonderful. She knows that look._

_She draws him into a conversation, gets him to tell her about himself. It’s nice to have someone to talk to as she waits; the villagers know her as the Dark One’s maid, and they are wary of approaching her because of it. Either this dwarf doesn’t know of her reputation, or he doesn’t care, and Belle is fine with that. The dwarf, Dreamy, tells her about the reason for the look on his face, the girl he loves, and then she realizes that her waiting is done, and she needs to finish her errand._

_With her cloak thrown about her shoulders and the hood up, she reaches out to touch his hand. “Go after her,” she encourages, “and tell me how it goes the next time we meet. I am in and out of here often.” True Love, she knows firsthand, is worth working for. Dreamy smiles at her and nods eagerly._

_She meets him again less than a week later, out of the castle for her own reasons, upset with the way Rumplestiltskin still shuts her out half the time and needing space to collect herself so she doesn’t get angry when she tries to talk to him about it. Dreamy is at the same table they sat at before, and he looks a little dejected. Well, someone else’s problems will help her take her mind off her own._

_When he tells her about it, though, tells her about how his fairy told him where she would be and when she would be there, Belle cannot help laughing. “She wants you to meet her,” she says, and Dreamy lights up. Belle follows him out the door, deciding that the walk and the short conversation with her friend were enough, and that it is time to head home._

_She goes back the next day, admitting to herself that she wants to know what happened, only to find Dreamy dark and scowling in a shadowy corner of her usual table. She sits next to him and waits._

_Slowly, as if he has to force himself to speak, he tells her of his encounter with the Blue Fairy. Belle feels rage burn in her stomach and coil in her chest at the utter_ presumption _of the fairy, telling Dreamy he cannot have love because of who he is._

_“She’s wrong, Dreamy,” Belle says, her voice low and uncompromising. “Everyone deserves happiness. Everyone deserves love.” She reaches out again, to touch his hand, but he shakes her off._

_“I gotta let her go,” he replies with a shrug. “It’s what’s best for her.”_

_“According to someone who has no right to be involved,” Belle returns._

_Dreamy drains his stein in one final swallow and stands. “And I’m not Dreamy anymore,” he says, ignoring he last comment. “I’m Grumpy now.”_

_Belle’s heart breaks for him as he walks away without looking back, her anger souring in her stomach as she realizes that there is nothing she can do. Rumplestiltskin, she knows, hates fairies, and Belle is beginning to understand why._

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Another thing she does with regularity is have lunch with her dad. The second Monday of every month, she meets him at Granny’s with the intention of simply catching up. That’s never how it goes, though.

It starts off amiably enough. “Izzy, my girl,” Dad says. “How are you?” He is cheerful as he steps into the diner.

Izzy smiles brightly and gets up to hug him before they settle on opposite sides of the table. “I’m good, Dad,” she tells him. “How are you?”

His return smile is tight, and Izzy can feel some of his good mood chip off. “Busy,” he says. “Business has been picking up.”

She can sense something else he wants to say, and knows she doesn’t want to hear it, so she jumps in. “That’s good!” she declares. “More business is always better!” She winces internally at how inane that sounds, but maybe Dad will start talking about how business has picked up, rather than…

“Yes,” Dad agrees. “It’s enough that—”

“Dad,” she cuts him off, feeling suddenly very tired. “Please don’t start. We haven’t even ordered.”

Moe—she can hardly think of him as “Dad” when he acts like this—Moe nods tersely, and they peruse their menus. It’s superfluous, something to do with their hands, so they don’t have to make eye contact, because they both always order the same thing. Ruby (wonderful, amazing, blessed Ruby) practically scurries over to take their orders when she sees the menus go up. She squeezes Izzy’s shoulder gently as she leaves, silently offering encouragement and support.

Conversation as they eat is tense and stilted. Ruby sometimes makes faces over Moe’s shoulder, trying to get Izzy to laugh, until Granny glares at her and tells her to concentrate on what she’s doing. When Izzy uses the restroom in the middle of the meal, more out of a need to keep from fidgeting than anything else, Ruby slips in behind her.

“Should I break out the wine?” she asks.

Izzy has her hands braced on the sink, head bowed, trying to get her temper back under control. “Have it ready for when I leave,” she mutters back.

“What, for real?” Izzy glances up; Ruby looks surprised.

“No,” Izzy sighs, “I don’t want Dad to see. I’ll just break into Nicholas’s liquor cabinet when I get home.”

Ruby laughs, and Izzy can feel herself calming more quickly with her friend around. “You have that man wrapped around your little finger,” Ruby tells her.

Izzy tries for a self-satisfied smirk, but the result feels a lot softer than she had intended. “Yeah,” she says. “I think he’d give me the house if I asked.” Her hands clench around the basin. Why can’t Moe _see_ that? Why does he insist on acting like Izzy’s lot is a torture intended for him? Why can’t he just _believe_ that she—

Izzy shakes her head in an attempt to dispel her thoughts. They don’t go anywhere—they never go anywhere—but she turns and smiles at Ruby anyway. “Once more unto the breach, good friend,” she says. Ruby grins, and they head back out.

Of course, the meal doesn’t get any better. Moe is still tense and uncomfortable, and Izzy still tries to remain cheerful and keep the conversation going. Moe acts like he’s indulging her with every word he says about anything other than her job, and Izzy has to work on keeping it from getting under her skin.

Finally, after Ruby has cleared away their dishes and is getting the check, Moe says, as if he can no longer hold it in, “Izzy, you don’t have to stay. The shop is doing better, you could help out there if you need something to do…”

“Dad,” Izzy says, unable to contain her exasperation, “we have been over this. I’m not quitting Mr. Gold’s place. I don’t _want_ to quit. It’s not as terrible as you seem to think.”

“I worry about you,” Moe continues, almost as if she hadn’t spoken. “All alone, with no one but that _beast_ for company every day.”

“Don’t call him that!” Izzy snaps. There are more things she wants to say, things about signing contracts without thinking them through, about letting her make her own choices so they might not be as idiotic as his, but she keeps them in. She’s not sure if it’s because she can’t decide which one to say, or because she knows she won’t be able to take any of them back. “He’s not what you think,” she says instead.

Her unvoiced words hand in the air between them until Moe takes a deep breath and, “Come home, Izzy.”

Something in her breaks. She can’t _do_ this anymore. It feels like they have been having this fight forever, and she’s tired of it. She’s so, so tired. She digs a twenty out of her purse and tosses it on the table, unable to stay in her father’s presence a moment longer. She stands, says, “I _am_ home,” and leaves the diner.

The back of her mind comments that that was a _very_ dramatic exit, but then she is lost to replays of the conversation and frothing rage. The walk home doesn’t seem to take as long as usual, and when she gets to the big, pink house ( _salmon,_ Nicholas insists), she practically flings herself on the couch.

She’s still there when Nicholas gets home. She has let herself cry, angry and (if she’s honest) hurt, while he was still out, and has calmed down some.

Apparently not enough, or maybe she should have washed her face, because Nicholas is at her side surprisingly quickly for a man with a limp. “Belle?” he says softly. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

Izzy shakes her head, not sure what she’s denying. “I had lunch with my dad today,” she admits. “We had a fight.”

Nicholas’s arms are around her without hesitation. “Oh, Belle, I’m so sorry,” he says. “Is there anything I can do? So you want to talk about it?”

_Stop being so wonderful,_ Izzy thinks. _You’re the reason I don’t want to leave._ But she doesn’t want that; the idea of no longer being friends with him repels her so much that she can’t even say it in jest. “I’d just get upset about it all over again,” she says instead. She wants to explain, she really does, but she knows that if she starts, she will not be able to stop. He will understand, of course, and that’s exactly what she’s afraid of. She’s not ready for him to understand. So she buries it all, blocks the words from getting out, and lets Nicholas hold her a little longer.

If only Moe could see them now.

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_They are sitting together in front of the fire when he asks the question. In the past months, the armchairs in the Great Hall have grown wider, enough that they can curl up together on one, if they sit close, which was no doubt Rumplestiltskin’s design when he did it. Belle cannot mourn the contact, and today it allows her to feel the tension that gives lie to the casual tone of his voice._

_“Belle, do you want to visit your father?”_

_She looks up at him, smiling softly, but he is staring at the fire. Before answering, she twines the fingers of her left hand through those of his right. “I do miss him,” she says quietly. “A visit would be nice.”_

_He nods sharply. “Then a visit there shall be!” His voice is in its higher register, the tone he uses when grandstanding and playacting. What has him so upset?_

_He tries to stand, but she will not let him. Point blank is always best when he is like this. “What’s the matter?”_

_“Nothing, dearie,” he twitters._

_She raises her eyebrows at him. She would fold her arms, too, but she suspects that he will bolt if she releases his hand. “Rumplestiltskin,” she says firmly, “try again.” He never calls her “dearie” anymore, not when he’s being genuine._

_Rumplestiltskin sags against her, turning them so he can bury his face in her shoulder. After a moment, he kisses the skin of her neck, making her shiver, and pulls back. “I can’t go with you,” he says. “Or, at least, it would end poorly if I did. I—I love you, Belle,” he still seems to have trouble getting the words out, but they warm her all the more for it, “so I won’t keep you from seeing him if that’s what you want. It’s only…” He trails off into silence. He still won’t meet her eyes._

_“Only…?” she prompts after a moment._

_“I’m afraid,” he manages. His voice is a strangled whisper, as if the words want to stay inside, and he is fighting to get them out. “I’m afraid that you’ll want to stay once you’re there, that being home will convince you not to come back.”_

_Her heart breaks to know he sees so little of his own worth. She cups his chin and turns his head gently until he finally meets her eyes. She kisses him, soft and slow and with all the love she has. “Rumplestiltskin,” she murmurs, “I_ am _home.”_

_It’s exactly the right thing to say. His face lights up and he kisses her back, this one hard and thorough and leaving her gasping when he finally pulls away. He presses his forehead to hers, and she can feel him breathe her in._

_He sends her the next day, their agreed-upon signal running through her head. She has trouble stifling her laughter at the flabbergasted look on her father’s face when she simply walks into what was once the war room._

_“Hello, Papa.”_

_He gapes like a fish for a moment, and really, keeping her laughter under control was never this hard before. But then, she laughs more with Rumplestiltskin than she ever did with anyone else._

_“Belle!” her father manages. “How did you escape?”_

_Ah. Yes. Her father doesn’t know Rumplestiltskin as she now does. “I didn’t escape,” she says. “He let me go.”_

_“He let you go?!” Maurice repeats._

_Belle smiles. “He was the one who suggested it, actually,” she replies. She is about to continue, about to tell her Papa all about the kind man she has found beneath the leather and the scales and the magic, when he starts speaking again._

_“Belle, you mustn’t go back,” Maurice says. “We’ve recuperated some, we can defeat the ogres ourselves now. You can stay here, where it’s safe, and even if that…monster who took you removes his protections, we’ll be fine.”_

_Belle feels her shoulders stiffen at her father’s description of her beloved. It’s going to be a battle, she knows now, but, these days, she is no stranger to battles. “He’s not a monster, Father,” she says firmly. She hopes that the title will shake him, will open his mind to what she is telling him; she only ever calls him “Father” when he treats her unnecessarily like a child, and he knows it. This time, though, he doesn’t see the hint._

_“Not a monster?!” he demands. “Your books are filled with stories of his brutal crimes, his habit of stealing children. He took_ you _from your own home and made you work like a slave!”_

_“I left of my own free will!” Belle nearly spits the words out. “I went with him, made a deal with him, to save our people, not because he kidnapped me in the middle of the night! And he does not_ steal _children; he takes them as payment when they are offered, because anyone willing to give up a child for something else likely won’t treat the child too well, anyway!” Her voice softens without her meaning it to as she continues. “Yes, he can be cruel, but he is also capable of great kindness. He hasn’t harmed me once since I went with him, and I’ve seen him with truly desperate people, people who have_ nothing _to barter with—he doesn’t just give them what they came for; he gives back their hope, their dignity. He’s not a monster, Father, he’s my friend.”_

_Maurice goes white. After a moment, he says in a hoarse whisper, “By all the gods, my girl, he’s put you under an enchantment.”_

_Amid all the things Rumplestiltskin has intentionally taught her, Belle has also learned a bit of choice vocabulary simply by being in the right place at the right time. As her father utters this appalling sentiment, Belle feels, for the first time, the desire to use that knowledge._

_“How dare you.” The words come out as a low and deadly hiss that grows louder as she speaks. “How dare you say such a thing about the man who saved our kingdom! How dare you even imply that he would do that to me! He_ suggested _I come for a visit because he knew I missed you, and he thought you might miss me! My going back to him was never even a question, and not just because of the deal! His castle is my home, now! His_ home _is my home.”_

_Her already harsh breath catches in her throat at the shocked look on her father’s face. She hadn’t meant to say that last part, but now it’s said, she can’t find it in herself to regret it. Until, that is, Maurice’s expression folds into one of absolute wrath._

_Never in her life has Belle been afraid of her father. Never before this moment, when he slams his hands down on the table and roars in rage, a truly inhuman noise the like of which she has never heard, not even when Rumplestiltskin’s mood is at its blackest._

_“He couldn’t be satisfied just taking you away from me, could he?” Maurice spits. “No, he had to poison your mind against me, as well!”_

_Belle, who so recently told her beloved that she has found bravery, shrinks back from her father’s anger, afraid for the first time in her life that he will hurt her to get her to do what he wants._

_“Gave me my kingdom, oh yes.” Though he seems to be speaking more himself now, Maurice has not reined in his anger at all. His next words are accompanied by a cacophonous crash as he sweeps a tea set from the table to the floor. “But at the expense of my life! Stole my child, gods only know what he did to Gaston, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was behind Colette’s death.”_

_It’s the last phrase that pushes her too far. The word she speaks, the single word that recaptures her father’s attention, is softly voiced, but dangerous to the core, like molten steel wrapped in velvet. “No.” She need not repeat it, need not get any louder, because Maurice stops in his tracks, reaching for a chair as though he aims to throw it, his words dying on his tongue._

_“Believe what you will of him,” Belle says, and she can feel the strength from her words reinforcing her bravery, straightening her stance, “but he would_ never _harm anyone who has done no wrong, and he would_ never _use ogres.” She can still feel her pain, her fear, hovering at her edges, but all that matters in this moment is the fire of her anger, the steel of her determination. “If you don’t agree with what I’m doing, so be it, but_ no one _decides my fate but me, and I refuse to listen any longer to this abuse of the man I love. Rumplestiltskin,” she says, her voice not wavering at all, not even as Maurice’s eyes go wide with shock and she realizes what she has told him, “bring me home.”_

_As the purple smoke of her beloved’s magic swirls up around her, Belle sees her father start forward, hands outstretched, as if to stop her, lips forming her name, as if to call her back, then there is nothing, and then there is home. Rumplestiltskin is smiling at her, equal parts astonished and happy that she called him. His face falls, though, as he looks at her, takes her in, then his arms are around her, she is safe in his embrace, her senses are filled with leather and scales and magic and_ him _, and she has no idea which of them moved._

_“Shh, darling, I’ve got you,” he coos softly in her ear, and she realizes she is shaking. “You’re safe now, love, I’m here.”_

_“Rumple,” she whimpers, and she cuts herself off before finishing his name because she_ hates _how broken and vulnerable she sounds, hates the fear and the hurt in her voice when all she wants is to hold onto her rage. He holds her closer and whispers gentle reassurances in her ear. He never once tells her that it is okay, and she loves him all the more for it, because it isn’t okay, her father has hurt her more than she believed possible, but with her Rumple holding her like this, so close and as though she is more precious than anything that has ever existed, she thinks that perhaps, some day, it will be._

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She dreams about him sometimes. A lot of her dreams are vague and unsubstantiated, leaving only fleeting impressions of smiles and laughter and uncertain touches, but some…some are not. Some are detailed, graphic, and _weirdly_ precise, and they leave her blushing and unable to meet Nicholas’s eyes afterwards. Those dreams are full of clever hands and soft lips, gentle sighs and breathy moans, a new understanding of the phrase “silver tongue”, and warm eyes full of love that shouldn’t be brown but are.

It’s in the aftermath of one of those dreams, one of the not-vague dreams, that she acts on the impulse to kiss his cheek. It’s been there for so long, that urge, since that morning in the kitchen, she’s pretty sure. A quiet longing, caught somewhere in her gut, somewhere in her head, and somewhere else in her heart.

She isn’t entirely sure if she doesn’t realize she has decided to do it or if she decides in the moment she does it. All she knows is that she goes up on her toes and that his cheek is smooth and clean-shaven under her lips and he is very, very still. She pulls back, feeling her face heat and wondering if she has crossed a line, and then he smiles at her, that slow, helpless smile from before, and she is pretty sure that she can see a desperate longing in his eyes. He looks, she thinks, like he wants to kiss her back, but isn’t quite sure what his reception would be.

So she incorporates it into their morning routine, the quiet and shy kiss on the cheek, and waits for him to make the next move.

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_She realizes one morning that it has been over six months since their first kiss, six months wherein they have gotten far more open with each other, six months for which she has waited for him to show her what comes next, and still they have gone no further than kisses. She decides, right then, that she is done waiting, so she finds her bravery and she goes to him._

_“Rumplestiltskin?” She is rather proud of the fact that she gets his whole name out without tripping over it._

_“What is it, darling?” She loves that, his special pet name for her, and it emboldens her a little more._

_“Do you want more than this?” she asks, gesturing vaguely between the two of them, trying to encompass their current relationship in a single motion of her hand. “Are you happy with things as they are, us kissing occasionally, living in separate rooms, or,” her face is heating and she has to force herself to breathe, “do you want more?”_ As I do. _Those words remain unspoken; she has no wish to pressure him, if he is not ready, but he may have no wish to pressure her, either, and he is the more skittish of they two._

_“Oh, Belle,” he says quietly, and he is not meeting her eyes, “of course I want more. I’ve wanted you for so long. I suppose I just forgot to stop fighting it.”_

_That would be more convincing if he could meet her eyes. She raises her eyebrows at him, their established shorthand for when she knows he is lying._

_He sighs. “I just can’t understand how you, how anyone, could want…this.” He indicates himself with a wave of his hand, looking thoroughly miserable._

_She reaches out and takes his hand, her heart hurting for whatever has wounded him so deeply as to cause all his doubt. “Rumplestiltskin,” she says, grateful for his long name to hold all the emotion she has for him. “I_ love _you. And everything that goes with it.”_

_She can see the moment his barely-held restraint snaps. The way his eyes darken in wonder and love and passion fascinates her as he teaches her the communion between mouths and hands and bodies. She is pleased with the results._

_So she seeks to recreate them._

_Repeatedly, whenever she can get him to join her._

_Which is exactly every single time she tries, and often when she doesn’t._

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The dam bursts one day, the blockade she put in place to keep the words at bay. It is swept away under the force of her need to give voice to _some_ of her thoughts. It isn’t a conscious decision; it just sort of slips out one day, how much she likes working for him.

He responds with a smile that tries being indulgent but can’t help being bashful, and she can _feel_ her heart swell at the thought of this quiet, gentle man that no one else in town can see. She likes that smile, she decides, and she wants to see it more often. So she starts telling him things, she calls him her friend, she talks about the books she reads. And he smiles at her.

When she tells him about how her dad pressures her to leaves, he hugs her and tells her that she is allowed to decide her own fate. When she mentions, too casually, how much Keith Nott creeps her out, Nicholas offers, just as casually, to kill him. Izzy is pretty sure he would do it, if she asked.

It’s not long after that that she starts leaving the house just to see him in the middle of the day. She sometimes drags him along to her lunches at Granny’s, though she rarely ends up talking with Ruby or Mary Margaret those days, and Ruby smirks at her a lot. At least Izzy has Mary Margaret convinced that it’s just because Nicholas is willing to listen to her constantly wish for the library to open. She doesn’t want to have to explain how _right_ it feels to be with Nicholas.

She isn’t sure she could if she tried.

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_He comes to find her in the library one day. It’s not the first time he’s done it; he seeks her company just as often as she seeks his. This time, though, he comes to her shy and cautious, in an attitude she is familiar with, but from the other side._

_“Belle?” He speaks her name softly, like he is doubting the wisdom of broaching whatever subject is on his mind._

_She puts down the book she has been reading (trying to read), and holds her hand out to him, to draw him to her. When he is close enough, she places a gentle kiss on the back of his fingers and then meets his gaze. “Yes, Rumplestiltskin?”_

_His catlike amber eyes are guarded, fearful, even, as he kneels at her side. “There are some things I have to tell you, darling,” he says. “Things about the past…and things about the future.” He hesitates, swallows hard. “They’re things I’ve never told anyone, so you’ll have to forgive me if I get it a little out of order.”_

_He takes a deep breath, and he starts at the beginning. Belle listens silently, never relinquishing his hand, as he tells her about his father, his wife, his son. He tells her about his time as a solider, the oracle, his crippling. His eyes grow clouded and distant as he tells her about the pirates, the conscription of children, his taking of the Dark One’s curse. He seems unaware of the tears he sheds as he tells her of losing his son, of three centuries of failure, of the curse he has finally, finally finished, and of the plans he has set in motion to reach his ends._

_The sun has set and they have missed their usual supper hour by the time his story is done. “So you see,” he says with an air of finality, “I may not have been born a creature of Dark magic, but I have always been a coward.”_

_He really believes it, and, now that she knows his past, it does not surprise her. Still…_

_“Oh, Rumple,” she says softly, and tugs him into the chair with her. “You aren’t a coward.” She places two fingers against his lips when he tries to protest. “Please, listen.” He nods, and she replaces her fingers with her lips in a brief kiss. “It’s okay to be scared. Being scared isn’t the same as being a coward. Being a coward means take the easier route_ because _it’s easier. It means ignoring what you think is right because it’s hard or it will hurt or you’re afraid. You’ve only ever tried to do the best for your son, to protect him, and to raise him better than your father raised you. That’s about the farthest thing from cowardly I’ve ever heard.”_

_Rumplestiltskin makes a soft noise, helpless and little broken, and buries his face in her neck, as if he is trusting her to keep him from falling apart._

_She runs her fingers gently through his curls, and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. She murmurs gently into his hair, “You’re the bravest man I know, Rumplestiltskin.”_

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_She counts the days after he leaves; it is perhaps a bit childish, but there is little difference from one day to the next with him gone. Her time is mostly spent researching prophecies and their outcomes, shifting between being unable to concentrate and losing vast swaths of time to her reading._

_When she cannot concentrate on the words before her, it is often because she is thinking about her Rumplestiltskin, remembering his explanations and their parting. He had told her that he didn’t know how long it would be until the Curse is cast, because reading the future is inexact at best. She hadn’t been able to fight off her tears when she said she would miss him. He held her, promising she would be safe, he would be fine, they would see one another again, all of which culminated in them making rather desperate love before finally saying good-bye._

_Rumplestiltskin’s associate (his friend), Jefferson, has visited several times, making good on Rumple’s word that she would be safe. Jefferson brings with him news of the outside world, unfortunately vague updates on the progress of Snow White and her king, and stories about his daughter that make Belle smile. She and Jefferson have been forming their own odd little friendship, especially after Jefferson tells her of his own dealings with the Evil Queen. This is part of the reason why she hugs him so hard when he tells her on day number one hundred and two that Regina seems to be about to do something particularly nasty._

_Mostly, though, she is just excited to be seeing Rumplestiltskin again._

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It’s Saturday when it happens. Of course it’s Saturday. Saturday is the only day she goes out drinking. She has already walked Leroy home, and is on her own way when a hand clamps over her mouth and she is dragged by the wrist into a nearby alley. Then she feels rough brickwork against her back and the smell of cheap whiskey washes over her faces as she is slammed into a wall by Keith _bloody_ Nott.

Instinctively, she flails her free hand at him, catching his face with a jagged nail and drawing blood. Nott releases her mouth to get both her hands pinned to the wall above her head.

“What the hell?” she splutters. “Let me go!”

“Oh, no,” Nott murmurs, and he isn’t as drunk as his breath would indicate. “You’re not leaving me hanging tonight, Izzy French. I’ve waited too long for this.”

“Let me go!” Izzy repeats. “Let me go, or…or you’ll wish you had!”

It’s a weak threat, and she can’t hide how much her voice is shaking as she says it, and he only laughs at her. But then—

The click of a cane on pavement, and Nicholas steps around the corner, his face calm, his eyes promising murder.

“Well, well, well,” Nicholas says, his voice icy smooth, hard, terrible, and the most comforting Izzy has ever heard, “what do we have here?”

“None of your business, old man,” Nott snarls, and his grip is so tight Izzy can feel the bones in her wrists grinding together.

She makes eye contact with Nicholas, knowing he won’t leave her like this but unable to keep her fear off her face.

“Now, you see, you’re going to find that there, you’re wrong.” There is a touch of dark amusement to Nicholas’s voice. “Everything that has to do with my housekeeper is my business.”

Nott’s eyes go wide and his grip slackens in his surprise. It’s just enough for Izzy to rip a hand free and ram her elbow deep into his gut. As Nott lets her go, winded and doubled over, she all but topples into Nicholas’s embrace. His arms tighten around her, cradling her close, keep her safe. She feels his chest vibrating, but can’t hear what he’s saying, then he gently leads her away.

The walk home is a blur of darkness and motion, each step bleeding into the next, as she trusts Nicholas to guide her and tries to burrow into his side. His arm stays around her, protecting and supporting, as the front door opens, there are stairs under her feet, and then she is seated on her bed with Nicholas kneeling in front of her and no idea how long it’s been.

“Belle?” Nicholas says softly. “Are you okay?”

It takes a moment for the words to process, for her brain to make sense of the sounds he produced, but finally Izzy managed, “I…I don’t know.” She _hates_ the way her voice shakes, hates how small she sounds, but this is Nicholas. This is her best friend, She can trust him with this. “He didn’t _do_ anything. You got there before he could. But I’m…I’m scared.” The last part comes out a whisper, because she is scared of that, too, of being open and vulnerable, of trusting anyone with her true feelings and running the risk of being ridiculed.

But this is _Nicholas_. Nicholas who rescued her, who brought her home safe. Her best friend, who is kneeling before her, soft and concerned around the eyes, taking her hands in his.

“It’s okay to be scared,” he says, like he knows what’s going on in her head. She can feel his fingertips brushing the already-forming bruises Nott left on her wrists. “Sometimes it’s even okay to run and hide. A little fear can keep you alive.” He pauses, inhales deeply, meets her eyes. “Something terrible almost happened to you tonight,” he tells her. “It’s okay if you’re not all right immediately.”

It’s what she needs to hear. It’s all she has ever needed to hear. “Thank you.”

He stays on her floor a moment longer before using her bed to lever himself to his feet. “You should sleep,” he says, and makes his way to the door.

With his back to her, she feels a little more lost and afraid. He _said_ it was okay. “Nick?” she says, her voice practically vanishing after that first syllable.

He turns back to her. “What is it, darling?” It’s his usual pet name for her—she has always been “darling” while everyone else is “dearie”—but the way he says it tonight, soft and tender and careful and _loving_ , shatters her control, obliterates the wall she’s always used to keep everything inside, and she lets it out, lets him in.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask her to clarify, just nods, says, “I’ll just change, and be right back,” and slips from her room. He leaves his cane behind.

She is under the covers before he is back, and he slips in with her. It doesn’t take much before she is plastered to him, clinging to his pyjamas and crying. He lets her, holding her tight and gently stroking her hair, until she runs out of tears. Then she remains, sprawled on his chest, in his arms until morning.

The next night, she debates with herself on whether or not to ask him to hold her again. He had said it was okay, that she could take time to get better, but surely he’d get more sleep in his own bed.

When she takes too long to decide, the choice is made for her, and they go to bed separately. At first. It only takes until she screams in the middle of a nightmare for him to come rushing to her side. She cannot help begging to stay, and he slides into her bed without another word.

“Remember,” he whispers into her hair, “it’s okay not to be all right. I’ll stay with you until you don’t need it anymore.”

She has half a mind to never let him stop.

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It’s been two weeks since he saved her. Two weeks of waking up with him still in her bed, still holding her, and today is the first time she wakes before him. It’s rent day, she knows, so he’ll be leaving soon, but he’ll be back earlier than usual. That’s good. Of late, she’s only felt safe when she’s with him, and…and it feels like it’s been so much _longer_ than two weeks.

Izzy pulls back a little way, props her head on her hand, and just _looks_ at Nicholas. As she studies him, she feels her breath catch in a way that it never has before; he’s so _beautiful_ like this, the sun—muted through the curtains—at his back, shadows further sharpening his already angular face. He looks relaxed, and a tiny smile hovers about his lips, as though he is dreaming of something wonderful, and the realization hits her with an almost palpable force. She has wanted him for what feels like forever, and she has loved him since that morning in the kitchen, but it’s always felt a little detached, a little vague, and probably platonic. But in this moment, feeling warm and soft and _cherished_ , she knows that she is _in_ love with him, and it’s as right and easy and necessary as breathing.

She’s not really aware of making the decision, but when Nicholas’s alarm rings, she reaches over him and shuts it off before he begins to stir. He _goes_ to collect the rent, she knows, so no one will really be looking for him, and she wants to hold onto this, the peace and safety of being in his arms, the quiet joy of being in love with him, for as long as possible.

So she settles back down, resting her head on his chest to feel its rise and fall, and barely thinks, measuring the time only in his breaths. Rise, fall, rise, fall. _In, out. In, out._

She feels the change when he wakes, a longer inhale, a pause before the exhale, a tiny noise of utter contentment. There is a moment, a moment where she knows he can feel her pressed against him, and then he starts to shift away. But she can feel, she can almost _taste_ how much he doesn’t want to, and _God above, he might love me, too._ Instinctively, she tenses her arms, tightening her grip, and the sound that comes out of him can only be a chuckle.

“Belle,” he says, his voice amused, “I have to get up.” But his hold on her is just as tight as hers on him.

“Nope,” she says, not bothering to try and sound half-asleep. By the end of the day, she decides there and then, he will know. She will tell him. “You make a good pillow.”

A real laugh rumbles through him, and good _lord_ that feels nice. “It’s rent day,” he says.

“Exactly my point,” she replies. “The good citizens of Storybrooke can go without you terrorizing them first thing in the morning.”

“I’ve never you complaining about it before.” He’s _teasing_ her and her heart turns over.

Keeping firm control on the foolish smile she can feel trying to work its way onto her face, Izzy casually dismisses this. “I’ve never had the opportunity before, not first thing on rent day.”

“All right,” he concedes. “Then what shall I do this morning, darling, rather than terrorizing Storybrooke’s populace?”

She beams at him, happy he’s playing along. “Breakfast,” she tells him, though it’s no different than what they do every morning. “We’re going to have a nice breakfast together.”

He offers to help her cook—a first—but she waves him away. She needs to get back into her usual routine, hold onto that familiarity one more time before she (hopefully) changes everything forever.

For the first time in two weeks, she sings.

They do their best to stretch the meal out, lingering over their tea for a full hour after he usually leaves. Then, when they are done, he helps with the dishes, as reluctant to go as she is to see him off.

Finally, they have nothing left to delay him, and she walks him to the door. “Go on and terrify the nice people,” she tells him. He sweeps her a flamboyant bow to make her laugh. As Nicholas opens the door to leave, Izzy leans in to kiss his cheek—

—and Belle leans back, watching the door close behind her Rumplestiltskin.

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I was all set to let them have an actual reunion but sleeplittlechild insisted on this ending so (mostly) blame her okay


End file.
